


Dying On This Hill

by annabeth_at_the_helm



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Depression, Gen, Korean War, Language, Melancholy, no happy resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_at_the_helm/pseuds/annabeth_at_the_helm
Summary: "This war is so fucking pointless," Hawkeye slurs into his gin in the officer's club. "Just a bunch of boys too young to be fighting dying for no reason."
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Kudos: 14
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020, Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Dying On This Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for "Doesn't Fix Depression" on my [Banned Together Bingo card](https://bannedtogetherbingo2020.tumblr.com).

"This war is so fucking pointless," Hawkeye slurs into his gin in the officer's club. "Just a bunch of boys too young to be fighting dying for no reason."

"Hawk, maybe ya should let up on the drink for a bit," Trapper says, holding out a hand. "Wanna go sleep it off?"

"And, Trap, every day there's some kid on my operating table who's too young to have even gotten the sex talk, but there they are, lyin' in blood and mud and guts, and I'm just s'posed to sew 'em up and send 'em back to the front? This war is killing me." He slams his fist down on the bar, and Frank and Margaret look over.

"For heaven's sake," Frank says, probably more loudly than he means to, "Pierce is drunk again. He's a womanizer and a drunkard and this outfit would be better off without him."

"Well," Hawkeye says, with the type of philosophy so common to drunk people the world over, "he's not entirely wrong." He stares morosely into his martini glass, clearly a million miles away from Korea. Trapper sighs and settles more comfortably onto the stool next to him; looks like this is gonna be a long night.

"Don't listen to Frank, Hawk. He's a sore loser, and he knows you're the better surgeon. The 4077th needs you."

"I don't wanna be needed for this," Hawk mumbles. He's got an expression on his face that suggests he's picturing home with the sort of fatalistic attitude of someone who never expects to go back there, or at least, not the way he used to be. "All I ever wanted was to join my dad at his clinic in Crabapple Cove. Not this." He swirls the gin in his glass. "Never this."

"Hawk, none of us want to be here," Trapper begins, only to be interrupted by Frank. 

"Speak for yourself, McIntyre. You and that degenerate Pierce may not think this is important, but the Army does, and that's enough for me." He glares at Radar, who is standing by the jukebox with Nurse Kellye—still trying to die on the hill that enlisted men not be allowed in the officer's club—and Hawkeye turns slowly, as if the room is sloshing around as much as his stomach probably is.

"The Army? Please. This army sends young men to die. That's all it wants, is to kill young men who don't deserve to be drafted into this shithole."

"Hawk—"

"Frank," Margaret says, coming to life at his table, "just let him be. He's a miserable person, and that's just the way it is. No use trying to get _them_ to see reason."

Hawkeye pushes away his glass. "I have plenty of wisecracks to go around, Margaret. What I don't have are the mental reserves to deal with this shit day in and day out." He lists to the side, and Trapper has to have quick reflexes to keep him from crashing to the floor.

The thing is, Trapper knows that this drunkenness is just a cover for the real issue. Hawkeye might be glib and seem unconcerned when he's high on no sleep, for example, but underneath that is a man who feels things so deeply it pains him to see _anyone_ in pain. If Frank weren't such a ferret face, he might find out that even _he_ could be on the receiving end of Hawk's compassion.

But Hawkeye is prone to melancholy, and drinking just clears the path from his brain to his mouth. These aren't new sentiments he's spouting; he's just as likely to declaim the Korean War and war in general when he's sober—he's just more likely to do it as a wisecrack or a well-placed snappy comeback.

Trapper knows Hawkeye, though. He knows that, tonight, he'll fall into his bunk with a gin-soaked head and wake in the morning with a furry tongue. He knows Hawk will remember this, though. That Hawk will recall the things he said—the things Frank said.

And Hawkeye will never let _anyone_ know how much it bothers him.

But Trapper knows. He'll never console Hawkeye, because Hawk doesn't want platitudes. But Trapper _sees_ Hawkeye, and though he knows there's nothing, he wishes…

Wishes there was something he could do.

END


End file.
